Code (6 page)

CHAPTER 10

A
buzz in my pocket startled me.

Text. Kit. Get my butt home for dinner.

“Gotta run, guys. Someone scan and email that image. I want to study it tonight.” I looked pointedly at Hi. “And remember to secure the bunker door. We can’t let the humidity get too high in here.”

“One time,” Hi mumbled, feeding paper into the printer. “I’ll never live it down.”

“Can you run me back?” I asked Ben, who nodded. Hi and Shelton would have to walk the mile and a half back to our complex.

“Don’t sweat it, ya’ll.” Shelton flexed his scrawny biceps. “I’ll have this nut cracked by morning.”

“I have no doubt.” Flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up.

Coop, Ben, and I crawled outside and descended to the cove. Fifteen minutes later we’d secured
Sewee
to the Morris Island dock.

“Later, Tor.” Ben headed for the townhouse he shared with his father. “I’ll take a look at those numbers, too. Shelton’s not the only one with ideas. Stay logged on.”

“Will do. Thanks for the ride.”

Patting my side for Coop to follow, I walked to our front door. Paused.

“What do you think, boy?” I scratched his muzzle. “Will Kit inflict us with her company again tonight?”

Coop cocked his head. A soft, pink tongue dropped from his mouth.

“Unfortunately, I agree. Gotta go inside anyway.”

Our canine instincts were dead-on. Whitney was swishing around the dining room in a yellow sundress, setting the table.

At least the food will be good.

“Whitney. Great to see you.” I plopped onto the couch. Cooper curled at my feet. “It’s been, what, twenty-four hours?”

Whitney smiled, her sarcasm detector broken as usual.

Kit hadn’t missed it. “Tory, get cleaned up. Now.”

Eyes rolling, I trudged upstairs. Stopped midway. Turned. Hanging on the wall beside me was a large white canvas depicting an oddly shaped blue dog.

“What is this?”

Whitney appeared at the bottom of the steps. “Oh! That, Sweetie, is my
favorite
painting. It’s a Blue Dog, by Dan Kessler. Don’t you just
adore
it?”

Actually, I did like it. But a single question was looping in my head.

What is it doing here? What is it doing here? What is it doing here?

I continued up in silence.

As I washed my face, unpleasant facts coalesced. A painting. The vase. Pink and green pillows. Whitney, alone in the townhouse, unannounced.

Like mold in a cellar, Kit’s bimbo girlfriend was quietly invading my domain.

Do. Not. Like.

I stared into my bathroom mirror. My reflection stared back. Impasse.

“Tory!” Kit sounded annoyed. “We’re waiting on you!”

“Blargh.”

I reached the table just as Whitney unveiled her menu. Crab cakes, corn on the cob, collard greens, peach cobbler.

Freaking delicious.

The adults tried to draw me into conversation, but the sneaky buildup of Whitney’s belongings had weirded me out. After scarfing my meal, I bolted for my bedroom and locked the door.

My Mac was awake, with a new message blinking on-screen. Ben. Requesting videoconference. I booted iFollow and found I was last to arrive.

Ben filled the top left quadrant of my monitor. As usual, he was lounging in sweats in his father’s rec room, which was an actual wreck. Old magazines, boat parts, camping gear, and fishing tackle were stacked in precarious piles all around him.

Shelton’s bespectacled face hung to Ben’s right, framed by the two
Avatar
posters on his bedroom wall. Though barely six o’clock, he was already sporting PJs.

Hi occupied the frame below Shelton. He was sitting at his desk, wearing a “Wolfman’s Got Nards!” T-shirt, and eating a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. My own image peered back from the final square.

“She’s here.” Shelton sounded impatient. “
Now
will you tell us what’s up?”

“I wasn’t going to repeat myself,” Ben replied, but his dark eyes sparked with eagerness.

“Then talk,” Hi said. “I’m missing
Man v. Food.
”

Ben got right to the point. “I solved the coordinates.”

“Did not!” Shelton looked shocked, and a little jealous. “How?”

A thin smile stole across Ben’s face. “For once,
I
had the flash of brilliance.”

“Go on.” Ben had my full attention.

“I was thinking about what Hi said earlier.”

“Smart,” Hi quipped.

“Not usually,” Ben continued, “but in this case you were right. The numbers
have
to be coordinates. Problem is, they don’t make sense.”

“Not unless we go dune-surfing in Africa,” Shelton joked.

Ben ignored him. “How much do you guys know about coordinate systems?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “I know that a specific longitude and latitude cross at a single point on a map, but that’s about it.”

“That’s right,” Ben said. “Coordinates are just sets of numbers used to denote an exact location. The most commonly used system is longitude, latitude, and height.”

“Latitude runs east-west,” Hi contributed. “Longitude goes north-south, from pole to pole.”

Ben nodded. “Now, for any system to work, there must be agreed-upon starting points. The reference planes defining latitude and longitude are the equator and the prime meridian.”

“Everyone knows that.” Shelton wiped and replaced his glasses. “The equator divides north from south. The prime meridian separates east and west.”

“Doesn’t the PM run through some observatory in England?” Hi asked.

“Greenwich,” Ben agreed. “That’s zero longitude. How far east or west a location is on a map is measured from that city.”

“In degrees, right?” I ventured. “East is positive and west is negative.”

“Gold star,” Ben said. “That’s how you calculate longitude—the number of degrees east or west of Greenwich.”

“Latitude works the same way,” Hi added. “North is positive, south is negative.”

“But you have to understand—” Ben leaned forward toward his screen, “—choosing the prime meridian
wasn’t
scientific. It’s not like the equator, which must be equidistant from the poles, and therefore can only be in one place. For the prime meridian, cartographers simply agreed to use an old English telescope as the universal reference point.”

“Really?” That surprised me. “When?”

“The 1880s.” Hi mumbled through a mouthful of Doritos. Of
course
he knew. “The United States held a conference, and most countries voted for Greenwich. It’s stuck ever since.”

“The
point
is,” Ben went on, “the choice was completely arbitrary. Before that conference, mapmakers had used dozens of other places as zero longitude. Rome. Paris. Rio. Mecca. Most countries just picked their own prime meridian.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Shelton stifled a yawn. “We already tried the digits as coordinates. They pointed to the freakin’ Sahara Desert, remember?”

“Say these
are
coordinates.” Ben lifted his copy of the clue. “The first number would be latitude. 32.773645. The second would be longitude. -00.065437.”

“And the closest town is—” Hi glanced down, face smeared with orange debris, “—Bou Semghoun. An oasis village in the Ghardaia region of southern Algeria. Think they get DirecTV?”

Ben’s eyes twinkled. “Guess what
else
is at latitude 32.773645?”

“What?” I felt goose bumps prickle my skin.

“Downtown Charleston,” Ben smacked his hands together. “Booyah!”

“Get out!” Hiram’s eyes widened. “How’d you know that?”

“Fishing.” Ben wore a smug grin. “If I find a good spot, I bookmark the location in
Sewee
’s GPS system. I’ve seen latitude 32.77 hundreds of times. I should’ve recognized it as soon as I saw the clue, but the rest of the string threw me.”

“But we still need a longitude,” Shelton pointed out. “We can’t find anything without both numbers.”

Ben’s smile widened. “Got that, too.”

“Spill it,” I demanded.

“That’s why I brought up the prime meridian,” Ben said. “Zero degrees longitude
doesn’t have to be fixed to Greenwich.
Not like zero latitude, which is always fixed to the equator and can’t move.”

I saw were Ben was going. “So this longitudinal coordinate could rely upon some other prime meridian. A totally different starting point!”

Ben leaned back, hands behind his head. “Bingo.”

“But that could be anywhere,” Shelton whined. “Literally any point on earth.”

“Wait, wait!” In his excitement, Hi spilled nacho chips onto his keyboard. “This clue was hidden inside the geocache. On Loggerhead! And that’s the only fixed location the Gamemaster gave us.”

“Hi figured it out,” Ben grumbled. “Sometimes I hate how smart you guys are.”

Alone in his bedroom, Hi raised the roof.

“So we use the first number as a normal latitude.” Dots were connecting for me. “Then we assume the second coordinate is for longitude, but with the Loggerhead cache location as the prime meridian.”

Ben nodded. “That’s our new zero longitude.”

“Ben, that’s brilliant!”

Suddenly, the boy was all blushes. “No big deal. Easy, really.”

“So where does—” I scanned quickly, “—longitude -00.065437 lead now?”

“You’ve got mail.” Ben tapped his mouse.

The message arrived almost instantly. I opened the lone attachment and loaded a JPEG onto my desktop.

And knew.

CHAPTER 11

“C
astle Pinckney?” Shelton’s voice was skeptical. “It’s abandoned, has been for years.”

“These coordinates are dead-on,” Ben said firmly. “No way that’s by accident.”

“But there’s nothing out there.” Shelton frowned into his webcam. “Just a beat-up pile of old rocks.”

“Part of the building still stands.” Hi’s gut filled a quarter of my screen as he searched above his desk. “I’ve got a book here, somewhere.”

“Sounds like a good spot to hide something.” I pulled up images as I spoke. “What do we know about the castle?”

“Hold on a sec,” Hi called from off camera. “Must be in my closet.”

My search results were not inviting.

Castle Pinckney was definitely deserted, and the neglect showed. A gnarly tumble of broken masonry and chest-high weeds, the dilapidated fort occupied a tiny atoll in the middle of Charleston Harbor.

The main building was circular, with a high curtain wall facing the harbor mouth. Scrub forest grew close, like a wild, tangled beard. Dark vines covered the crumbling gray stone, locking the fortress in a choking, shadowy embrace.

Though the isle sat a mere thousand feet from the downtown peninsula, the ruined battlements seemed lost in time. No one ever went there.

“At first, the British hanged pirates out there.” Hi was back on camera, skimming some sort of military encyclopedia. “Then, in 1781, George Washington ordered the construction of a fort.” Page flip. “The Confederate Army used Castle Pinckney as a POW camp. After that, the island became an artillery position, eventually a lighthouse.”

“Now, mothballs.” Shelton made a wipe-away gesture. “Ghost town.”

“I’ve cruised by there dozens of times,” Ben said. “Dumpsville.”

“The perfect hiding place.” Hi clicked his tongue. “Well played, Señor Gamemaster.”

“Fine.” Shelton sighed from the depths of his toes. “Put a visit on our to-do list.”

My eyes drifted back to the images on my screen. Castle Pinckney had a brooding, ominous feel. Lonely. Foreboding.

I was hooked.

Watch check: six fifteen p.m. Plenty of daylight left.

“Meet me at the dock in ten,” I said.

“Done!” Hi swiveled his chair, propped a foot, and started lacing his Adidas.

“Wait! What?” Shelton raised both hands. “Tonight? Why?”

“We’ve got over an hour before dark.” I yanked my hair into a ponytail. “Let’s show Mr. Gamemaster how quickly Virals solve puzzles.”

Ben took a moment to consider, then shrugged. “I’ll get
Sewee
ready.”

“We’ve
got
to work on our decision-making process.” Shelton was shaking his head. “Right now, we just follow Tory over every cliff.”

“Oh, boohoo,” I mocked. “Get moving.”

“You’re going
down,
clown!” Hi slapped his hands together. “Tory, don’t forget the clue. We still don’t know how that image factors.”

“Got it.”

Three faces winked out as I slapped my laptop shut.

“I’m taking Coop for a walk!”

Kit’s head popped from the kitchen. “Now?”

I nodded, hoping he wouldn’t ask more questions.

Kit didn’t disappoint. “Okay, but be back before dark. It’s a school night.”

“Promise, bye!”

Coop and I shot down the front stairs and beelined to the dock. I heard another door open, turned to see Shelton hurrying from his unit.

“I’m serious, Brennan.” Shelton had changed into white Nike gym shorts and a black
Walking Dead
hoodie. “My foot’s coming down. No more last-minute hijacks of my evenings.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Believe that.” He let the matter drop.

I didn’t take Shelton too seriously. Though none of them would ever admit it, I think the boys secretly liked me bossing them around. Most of the time. Every snake needs a head.

Hi and Ben were already aboard. We cast off, rounded Morris Island, and entered Charleston Harbor.

The evening was pleasantly warm. Seagulls rode the thermals high above our heads, mirroring
Sewee
’s progress as we passed Fort Sumter and headed toward downtown.

A tiny islet materialized just short of the peninsula. Low and rocky, its shore consisted of a dismal stretch of sand running a few hundred yards before melting into the waves. A weathered stone structure occupied a stretch of high ground at the island’s north end. Castle Pinckney.

What was left of it, anyway.

Loose stones littered the uneven ground. Whole trees grew from the crumbling mortar of the outer wall. Everything was soaked in pelican poop, and looked on the verge of collapse.

“What a dump,” Ben grunted as he eased the runabout closer to shore.

“How come no one ever restored it?” I asked. “Aren’t you Southerners crazy for preserving Civil War monuments?”

“I think you mean the War of Northern Aggression,” Hi deadpanned in a prim Southern voice. “When ruthless Union troops invaded our sacred homeland to rob poor Dixie of her freedom. Being from Boston, it’s mostly your people’s fault.”

My eyes rolled. “I lived in Westborough. All of New England isn’t Boston, like everyone down here thinks.”

“All Yankee towns are the same,” Hi said with a wink. “Nothing but factories and coal mines.”

I didn’t return fire. Hi was just messing around, and I tried to avoid reminiscing in public. Thoughts of my former home inevitably led to thoughts of Mom, and that often led to waterworks. Best friends or not, I hated when the guys saw me cry.

“Fixing up Pinckney has been proposed a dozen times, but the money’s never there.” Shelton hopped into the surf and began helping Ben ease
Sewee
closer to dry land. “It gets overshadowed by Sumter and the outer forts, even though it’s older.”

Ben dropped anchor a few yards off the seaweed-strewn beach. We slipped off our sneakers and waded ashore, re-shoed, then crossed a short patch of grass to the base of the ruins. Sighting a flock of roosting seagulls, Coop gave chase. The birds scattered, cawing in irritation.

The castle’s curtain wall was roughly twelve feet high and intermittently broken by rectangular openings that had once been windows. A single entry was cut into the center of the monolithic stone façade, which curved away to either side, totaling perhaps seventy feet in diameter.

We studied the ancient fortress. It glowered back.

Shelton spoke first. “I’m not setting foot inside that house of cards.”

I pulled the Gamemaster’s clue from my pocket, hoping for inspiration. No such luck. The smile-like image remained indecipherable.

“Think.” A light breeze fluttered the page in my hand. “What are we missing?”

The wall loomed above us, empty windows spaced five yards apart like a row of black teeth. The castle seemed to scowl, like an evil, rotting jack-o’-lantern.

No, not scowling. The windows form a ghastly grin.

It hit me.

“Of course!” I waved the clue, used air quotes. “The ‘teeth’ in this picture match the windows!”

“Wow, you’re right!” Hi said. “Which means the snaggletooth must be—”

“The cache location!” I finished. “Come on!”

Moving clockwise along the wall, I counted openings to the left of the archway. Stopped at number five.

“Here.” I stood before a three-by-five gap. “This one corresponds with the outside rectangle in the sketch.”

Air wafted from within the castle, cool and dry. The window was a yawning, black pit that the pre-dusk sunlight failed to penetrate. Even straining, I could see only a few feet ahead.

“This section seems less run-down,” Hi observed.

“The stonework looks sturdier,” Shelton conceded, “but that doesn’t mean it’s safe to go in. This castle’s so old, the forest’s grown
on top
of it.”

Ben pushed the wall with both hands. Tugged the stones forming the windowsill. Kicked the fortification’s base. Pushed again. “Seems pretty solid.”

“Great work, Ben,” Hi deadpanned. “That oughta do it.”

“You have a better plan? Or should we run back home?”

“Actually, I do.” Hi dropped his head. A beat, then shivers wracked his body. He snorted. Coughed. Spit.

When he straightened, his eyes burned with golden fire.

I nodded. “Good plan.”

Eyes closed, I reached deep.

SNAP.